At the Shrine of Your Lies
by Squirrel-fifteen
Summary: In which Sauron gets the better of Ar-Pharazôn who's trying to get the better of Sauron. A brief exploration of the relationship between these two tyrants and their subtle use of... politics. It sort of ties into another fic that I have not posted, yet. It's what's between the lines that warrants the M rating.


**Author's Note: I've been wanting to write a piece featuring Ar-Pharazôn and Sauron. This is heavily inspired by the song _Take Me to Church_ by Hozier, a conversation I had with AzureSkye23 (their fanfics are incredibly insightful and interesting,) and _Sins of Our Fathers_ by TheEventualWinner. As I said in the summary there are some implied things. It's nothing too graphic, but still, it's two Lords trying to own each other, and Ar-Pharazôn arrogantly thinking he has a certain Maia wrapped around his finger. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

* * *

 **At the Shrine of Your Lies**

Slowly the shrill wails of the young maid faded, until the thin echo of her screams whimpered in the shadows that hung between the temple's pillars, until they too were lost, drowned out by the crackle of the fire that greedily consumed her remains.

The air grew thick with anxious hope, as the gluttonous blaze crackled and popped, charring flesh and blackening bones. Fervently some of the congregation prayed, wondering if today, if today would be the day Morgoth bestowed eternal life upon them.

Eyes wavered between the doors, and the towering glorious golden figure on the opposite side of the fire. Tar-Mairon beautiful, towering, and formidable, they loved and feared and hated him. How confusing the things they felt around him could be, but regardless of their individual perceptions of him, it was his charisma and his truths that brought them to the temple.

They waited for a sign, or a word from him, like desert flowers waiting for rain.

At last the priest's lip curled upward, his bright golden eyes made all the brighter by the fire before him, and in response a thrill of hope seemed to jostle through the crowd. Inwardly he laughed to see it. How foolish they were, wishing for what would never be given to them.

"He's pleased." The lie dropped like sweet honey from Sauron's lips. He was sure Morgoth would have been exceedingly pleased by these sacrifices. But locked away in Void he would never learn of them. These descendants of the Edain who had dared to stand against him thousands of years before, now paid homage to the Dark Master who would have seen them eradicated. The irony delighted and disgusted him.

Always the Edain could be trusted to shoot themselves in the foot, when bidden. It resulted from their youth, but also from their temperament, thinking themselves somehow on par with Elves and Maiar. Arrogant and egotistical, because they had been given an island to call their own, they had developed and impressive sense of entitlement, that he found amusingly obnoxious at the best of times, and loathsome at the worst.

The King's presence at this particular meeting soured his humour, and disgust unfurled in his chest. He could feel the unwavering blue eyes boring into him, and a short glance at the handsome middle-aged face said all that needed to be said.

"The power of Lord of Darkness, does not wax or wane, always it is present." Sauron stooped, sticking his hand into the fire. Harmlessly the flames lapped at his fingers, and he was half tempted to cast himself in the fire entirely, if only to cleanse himself of that gaze.

Shock and excitement rustled through the crowd when he did not scream or thrash about. Long ago he would have inwardly smirked, seeing how well his theatrics strengthened their convictions in their hopeless dreams. But now it was a dull affair, a utility that that served a greater purpose.

That any other than himself should be declared a God-King or dominate the world that was his by rights angered him. If the Valar were the Kings and Queens of Arda, then they should have sought to fix what they had broken, sought to bring paradise and peace to Endor. Had they? No. And the world had proved- when that upstart smith Celebrimbor betrayed him-that Morgoth's nihilism would not be easily subjugated. The world did not wish for him to fix it easily or peaceably with the council and friendship of others. By force and terror he would bend the world to his will. He would fix it. Mercilessly. Wrathfully. He would be what the Valar were supposed to be, what Morgoth had failed to be from the very beginning: a benign caretaker for the Children.

And here in Numenor he would begin his work. This place that he had been brought to as a prisoner shamed and shackled would see him become its lord. And that King to whom he had kneeled, now staring at him with unbridled lust would one day find himself strung upon a dungeon wall forced to live at his leisure: a slave to amuse himself with. Death would be a mercy too swift to grant.

"In the air, in the deepest reaches of the earth, in the waters of the ocean, and even here, in this temple, in this fire his presence can be felt. All that he requires of you is that you keep your faith." Slowly he removed his undamaged hand from the fire. "In time he will grant you his blessings as he granted them to me."

His mouth tasted bitter as he dismissed the congregation. All of them genuflected, offering obeisance to the fire. Many of them left the, and begrudgingly he watched them do so, hating them, their pride, and their freedom. True, he had escaped the dungeons, but he was still a prisoner. The King's lingering presence proved as much. And with a mix of annoyance and something nearing gratitude he stepped down from the dais, to speak with the Edain who lingered.

Hopefully the questions would be many and the conversations long enough to make the King give up and leave. It was a foolish hope. As he smiled in greeting to a woman, tall and strong, even when the skin around her eyes and mouth was wrinkled, and silver streaked her ebony hair.

Ever he could feel those boring into him, and already he could feel those strong calloused fingers upon him.

Quietly the king stood back, watching his advisor and high priest move through the throng of jostling people, somehow knowing who wished to speak to him and who didn't. Many took their leave, but several loitered, all wishing to seek some form of council or voice some form of concern. He paid scant attention to the conversations, more entranced by the graceful movement of his Maia, the sashaying of his robes, and the swaying waves of silken gold.

Impatiently he waited for those golden eyes to turn to him, but the first few tendrils of frustration began to unfurl in his chest, as it became poignantly clear that Tar-Mairon was blatantly ignoring him.

And yet…as the crowd began to dwindle something in the Maia's mannerism changed. Something in the air about him, and what it was exactly the King could not put his finger on.

It was when he was addressing the last pair of stragglers, a mother with her small daughter, the latter who offered the priest a single tiny pink flower, that Tar-Mairon finally met his gaze.

And how Ar-Pharazôn's heart suddenly beat too quickly in his breast as lust rushed through his veins, hot and intoxicating, like he'd drunken too much wine.

"I like you!" The girl squealed, with the honest naiveté possessed by most children, before burying her scarlet dimpled cheeks in her mother's skirts.

Mood suddenly soured Ar-Pharazôn looked up.

One of his Maia's perfect eyebrows was raised in an expression stunned incredulity as he eyed the child cowering in her mother's dress, before glancing back at the flower. And slowly his expression morphed into amusement, and finally something, possibly Tar-Mairon's brand of happiness or gratitude or maybe something else appeared in the upward quirk of his Maia's lips. It wasn't a smile, but definitely wasn't the infuriating smirk the king had grown accustomed to seeing. Whatever it was Ar-Pharazôn thought that it was genuine, and in the midst of his lust jealous cruel and hateful unfurled, for no other should have been allowed to put such a look upon his Maia's face.

High priest and advisor Tar-Mairon may have been, but still he was a prisoner, his prisoner, his slave, his Maia. Every breath Sauron took was at the King's allowance. Every ship the Maia had built was at the king's behest. The temple only existed because he allowed it. And Sauron had only gained his prestigious position as High Priest Tar-Mairon, because he'd granted it.

How easily the King could strip him of all that, and throw him back into the dungeons, where he could rot. At a snap of the fingers and the call of the guards Sauron could be on his knees, a shamed and pathetic prisoner once more. And for a terrible moment the sight of Tar-Mairon stripped, and paying him obeisance was nearly worth it.

Tar-Mairon knelt down, still towering over the child, peaking at him a single shy bright blue eye, from behind the fold of her mother's dress. Embarrassedly the woman had turned her head away and covered her mouth with her hand, perhaps stifling a laugh at her daughter's antics. Or perhaps she was praying that the former dark lord wouldn't find offence in her child's ridiculous behaviour.

"And I like you." The Maia's voice low and warm like honey.

The girl uttered a delighted tittering shriek and bolted from her mother's skirts. Giggling shrilly she fled the temple, leaving the frazzled woman to offer a frail apology just to be certain such a breach of etiquette hadn't caused offence, before chasing after her.

Chuckling Tar-Mairon rose, twirling the tiny flower between this thumb and forefinger.

"Tar-Mairon." Tall, imperious, the king pushed himself off the column.

"Sire?" The Maia inclined his head.

"We have important matters to discuss."

A brief glance in his direction was the priest's response, before he gestured at a pair of acolytes to shut the doors. Silently the doors glided closed, before shutting with a deep boom that reverberated through the temple.

Red cloaks swished about them as they strode to the fire. They genuflected, then bowed to the King and departed, leaving the pair alone in the mighty dome.

Overhead blackened silver glinted dully with the ruddy reflection of the fire.

Biting back his disgust and shoving down his hatred Sauron steeled himself. It was a routine at this point. Whenever the King attended a sermon, it ended with this….

In the moment he hated no one more than he hated Ar-Pharazôn the Golden. Loathing and disgust, left an acrid taste in his throat, and hatred roiled so passionately through his stomach he felt sick. But his face remained perfectly smooth, maybe tinged with something coy, as he looked to the king.

"We have important matters to discuss," he repeated calmly, wrapping himself in an aura of coy innocence, as though he were oblivious to the king's intent.

Lust; abhorrent and lewd was etched into the King's face. Pupils blown wide by arousal smirked at him, and it took every ounce of will power not kill the man then and there, to utter a curse that would gut him from the inside out, melt him from within. A sing touch as all it would take to burn him, leave him smouldering on the floor as dried and blackened as the corpses smoking in the fire.

"That we do," the King agreed stepping closer. Ever it annoyed the King how much taller than him his Maia was.

To that Sauron gave no response, forcing his face to remain neutral as a hand grazed his arm. No Edain was worthy of touching him such a way, but remained still, thickening the sense of shyness about himself as if it were a shield.

Ar-Pharazôn drew away, his hand falling from his arm, and for a moment the Maia relaxed, but he still gripped tightly the golden aura of gentle shyness.

"You seem quite comfortable here," the king gestured to the temple. "And I wonder if you strive for things beyond what you've been allotted."

"What my king, is it that I strive for?" He asked with an air of affronted innocence, as if such an accusation was preposterous to even contemplate. Of course there were things Sauron desired, but his plans for the island's wretched people were far beyond anything the King could possibly contrive. No. The allegation was little more than a cute way of stating the Maia's increasing popularity was making him uncomfortable. As it should have. The king was no fool, but his misgivings had come far too late, and being lust filled and needy like a mewling adolescent left his accusations feeble.

Fingers trailed down Sauron's cheek, and inwardly he bridled under that arrogant possessive touch.

"I think it's not Morgoth they worship, but you…."

The king's hot breath tickled his neck and shoulder as he pressed close, and that same greedy hand lightly grazed its abhorrent way down his throat. A sigh of resigned exasperation, he warped into something heady and subdued.

"The Lord of Darkness is not I. I have not that kind of power."

The air about him he carefully moulded like a potter sculpting with clay. It was best if the king thought him cowed. All the more joy he would reap from Ar-Pharazôn's fall because of it. The light of innocence he dimmed. And he merely shifted his arm as the king's other hand settled on his hip, before smoothing its way to the small of his back.

A few small kisses the king dotted along his neck while fingers twirled and played with golden hair.

Every touch Sauron allowed: mellowing as the fingers groping him became more fervent and the kisses bolder. As though his very essence was merely clay to played with by another.

He abruptly wilted into the touch, falling like a wilting flower upon the king's shoulder, in a cascade of golden ailing splendour. "Tis true," he mumbled. "Tis true, my lord." His voices was soft and subdued and into his words he slipped a wavering tendril of beguiling power. "I do strive for what is beyond me."

The king smiled, relishing the gentle slide of fingers over his chest. It pleased him how compliant his Maia had become. But if he could have seen the hate seething bright and terrible in Tar-Mairon's honey eyes, he would have quailed to learn how mistaken such a notion was. But soft, melodious and gentle his Maia's voice continued. His warm breath intoxicating as it danced upon the pulsing vein in the king's throat.

And the king ached for more than the soft touch of his captive's fingers upon his robes. Lust burned hot in his blood, and his hands upon the Maia were harsh. "I strive to see crowned in glory."

The King smirked as the Maia's voice hitched, and the breath that danced along his throat was gasp.

"I strive for thy sake."

Soft lips pressed against the King's throat, and fingers wound tightly in his ebony hair.

"…To be pleasing to thee."

Smirking lips left a scalding kiss upon the king's jaw, but the Edain Lord, held so tightly in Maia's clever hands, felt it not.

The very air around the Maia, seemed to shimmer, as the King suddenly whirled his capricious little prisoner about and pinned him against a nearby column. How the King's heart leapt overcome by wicked joy as momentary shock flicked through those cunning tawny eyes. Another reminder of the victory he won over the former lord of Mordor.

For a moment his groping, roaming, titillating hands softened, and one rose to possessively caress one of those beautiful pink stained cheeks, bathing in the power he wielded over his prisoner. A gilded idol, and fitting toy for a golden king. Never had spoils of war been more glorious than his Tar-Mairon.

Gold eyes filled with lust, suddenly glittered with cruel disdain, and into the fire beyond Sauron stared. Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it to keep up the pretence. The game had become a tedious and dull. Lust made everything easy, far too easy, and he groaned apathetically into the king's mouth. Every arrogantly avaricious touch lavished upon him proved how tightly the king was wound about his finger. Corrupted. Enslaved. Ruined.

Numenor would soon be his for the taking.

Over the king's shoulder, the fire burned bright and crimson, staining the king red. Golden indeed…. The fire told a different story. Every ragged pant grazing the Maia's neck, as he slipped his fingers in the king's robes, reminded him of the screams.

In arrogance the King believed he'd earned his victory, forgetting that Sauron had graciously handed it to him. In his pride he believed that a Maia could be owned, that a wolf could be kept as a mewling pet, and a fire could be tamed.

He begrudgingly allowed every greedy disgusting touch that conjured flickers of warmth that licked his insides, because he had the Man right where he wanted him. In arrogance the king had sown his own destruction, and Sauron would see him reap what he deserved. The fire that burned the Faithful followers of Eru, would consume the entire island.

With every slip of fabric and glide of flesh the fire grew higher.


End file.
